Hell: The Black Album
by May Glenn
Summary: AU: What should have happened in S4: SAM RESCUES DEAN FROM HELL. Three versions of this scenario; all titles taken from Metallica's "Black Album." Rated T for strong Winchester language.
1. Through the Never

_A/N: Even though I love seeing where the show's going now, __**the best thing ever**__ would have been Sam rescuing Dean from Hell. Sam drinking demon blood and killing things with his brain is so much more palatable if it's for Dean's sake, to rescue him. So I wrote Sam getting Dean out of Hell. Then, unsatisfied, I wrote it again. And again._

_So here are three different versions of Sam rescuing Dean from Hell. Not sure which one I like best, and would love it if you decide to review and let me know which one you liked best. There's a lot of repeated material, and if y'all can help me decide on a "best" then I can transfer all the good stuff into one version._

_So, obviously, very AU. Dean isn't in Hell for as long, Sam's powers are advanced in different ways, Ruby isn't even mentioned, etc. _

_HELL I: THROUGH THE NEVER – Dean is so tormented in Hell he forgets who he is, and Sam isn't sure what he's brought back…A bit confusing in the beginning, since it's Dean's POV and he doesn't know what's going on._

_**Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural. If I did, it might go something like this:**_

He woke. He was only _he_, because he had no idea who the hell he was. Hell. That was important. That was familiar. He knew that. He knew Hell. Why didn't he know who he was?

He opened his eyes when he woke: opened his eyes to see a whole lot of crap he didn't recognize. He was lying on his back, spread-eagle, wearing what might have once been clothes, but were so torn and soiled they now hardly qualified. He was lying in a circle drawn in the ground, a circle with strange shapes he didn't know, and above him were symbols he didn't want to know, and the air was thick with the smell of candles and incense. There were lines of salt in the floor—he didn't know how it he knew it was salt, it just was—and iron filings as well. The room was dark, and small, like an abandoned shed.

Pain. Mind-numbing pain. It was a wonder he could remember how to breathe, much less his name and where and who he was. The pain was so fantastic he vomited on the spot, or at least his body went through the motions of vomiting, but nothing was in his guts to come up. He had a strong desire to curl up into a ball, but his limbs obeyed only sluggishly, and any movement brought only more pain. He had achieved himself on his side, wondering what it was that hurt most on his body—but coming to no conclusions—absolutely everything hurt with equal ferocity—when he became aware of others around him.

Two shapes rushed him, not exactly threateningly, but enough to make him flinch: though he knew very well that he couldn't do a thing about it if they decided to start kicking him in the face. They were men, shouting something at him, calling a name, speaking to him, but it sounded muffled, as if their voices came through water.

"Dean! Dean!"

_Dean?_

Before he could think this through, the younger of the two men grabbed him, lifting him and—hugged him? Was he crying?

He didn't respond—he couldn't respond—not through the pain, not through the swimming, spinning, useless brain.

"Dean, thank God, you're back. It's all right, now, I've got you, you're safe, we're gonna take care of you…"

"You gave us one hell of a scare, boy."

He flinched at the word _hell_, shutting his eyes against the world.

"Dean?" The young man holding him now touched his face, and this was somehow simultaneously the most comforting and irritating touch he could imagine in his limited existence. "Dean? Can you hear me, Dean? Dean…"

He looked up at him blankly.

The young man's face fell, and he began pleading, as if knowing the answer, "A-are you in there?"

He had to say something now. After a struggle: "P-please," he managed, though why he thought begging would work was beyond him, "d-don't hurt me." His voice was less than a whisper, like his throat had been worn out screaming. Yes, he remembered the screaming.

The young man holding him looked crushed. It was hard to miss: the glazed, blank look, the lack of recognition, the brain so warped by pain and fear it had forgotten what it was. Shocked now out of his own mind, the younger man let him fall a little, but the older man, bearded, was now cradling his head.

"Dean, dontcha recognize us? Dean? What do you remember?"

This, too, was unwanted. The answer was nothing, and it read on his face. Nothing but horrible torment. He made a noise like a dying animal and shut his eyes, wanting never to open them again. Couldn't they allow him to rest? Couldn't they _all_ just let him rest? His soul was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to be snuffed out of existence.

Now the young man holding him had rallied. "All right, Dean," he was saying, "that's all right. That's fine. You'll be okay. We're gonna look after you." The young man shifted himself, running his hands beneath his body as if to lift it up, but the older man laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"We can't move him."

"What? Bobby, look at him! He's hurt—we've got to get him somewhere where we can—"

"We'll treat him here." The man called Bobby paused, bit his lip, lowered his voice a little. "We don't know what we brought back yet. If it's Dean. If it's a demon. If it's…anything. We need to be sure."

The young man squeezed his eyes shut with impotent rage. When he nodded, the tears fell out and splashed onto the face below. The younger man looked down at him like an abandoned puppy: he would have given anything not to see that face look at him like that. Then the young man turned back to the older man and nodded. "Okay. Yeah. You're right. Bring—"

"I know what to bring, Sam," the older man said, "you just stay with him," and left.

_Sam. _

That word he knew. That word he remembered from his own screams. He'd screamed it long after he knew what it meant.

After he'd forgotten he was Dean Winchester.

Dean inhaled sharply and choked on the air, every muscle in his body attempting to work at the same time, so that the signals crossed and all he did was shudder. His brain suddenly hurt, hurt more than all the pain in his body. He gulped, trying to speak, he had to get it out of him if it killed him:

"S-Sam?"

"Dean? Dean, oh my God, you're back."

But Dean shut his eyes again. He was trembling violently, shaking his head back and forth, attempting to rid his mind of something. Of everything. Even as he struggled to bring it back.

"Do you remember, Dean?"

Oh, he remembered: Hellfire. Soul-shattering pain. Of the eternal persuasion. It was just burning pain forever and ever and the _amen_ stuck in his throat. Mental, physical, psychological, metaphysical, supernatural pain. Like his soul was getting kicked in the balls, over and over and over. Remembering the pain brought it back to him as strong as ever. The worst part was that there was something on the other side, something further back in his mind that he so desperately wanted to remember, but nothing could possess him to cross that fire again to get to it.

"It's…no…please, God, no…"

"Dean, it's okay, relax—" the hand that touched his forehead jumped away. "Oh, God, Bobby, he's on fire!"

Of course he was on fire. It was consuming him, too close. He was too close. His mind was too full of it, and he wasn't strong enough to fight it.

Sam laid a hand on his brow. Pain exploded exponentially in his head as Sam charged in and stamped around in his brain, coaxing it to life, unlocking the doors, letting in memories—but with them more fire: Dean screamed. This amount of pain wasn't possible. This was a new caliber of pain, as every memory he had ever had flooded back into its customary slot in his brain, with Hellfire always licking at the gates.

"Sammy, please…"

"It's all right, Dean. You've gotta remember."

"It hurts…"

"I know, just trust me. Listen to me, focus on my voice. Um. What's your name?"

"What? Jesus Christ!"

"Answer the question! Work with me here."

"Dean Winchester." It was no more than out his lips before he cried out in agony. This wasn't working, and Sam knew it. Skip the concussion-check questions. He had to dig deeper, faster, possibly too fast:

"Tell me about your car."

This took a moment. A struggle of connecting neurons, and then: "What, the Impala?" he gasped. To his surprise and pleasure, the pain subsided a little as he said it and thought about it, as he remembered. _1967…black Chevy Impala…the only girl I ever really loved…_

"Yeah," Sam said, gushing with relief to feel the release of some tension in the body in his arms. "Focus on that."

Dean shivered as Sam stepped in and poked around in his brain, shoving the customary furniture back into place. In Dean's head he appeared to be dressed, rather ridiculously, like a fireman. Dean's fucking hero.

"Sam, stop," Dean pleaded, weakly. But as the Impala faded from his mind, the fire came back. Always the fire. He whimpered as he realized another problem: Sammy wasn't allowed in here. This was _his_ head, the only thing he had left to him—and even then, only just. "Get out. You—can't. Please."

"Shut up, Dean. This isn't the time." Now he was armed with a huge fire hose, and didn't look like he could be made to leave.

"Aww, I get all tingly when you take control," he snorted, latching on to sarcasm in his fear. The line just came to him, like he had said it before, and he thought it was worth re-using.

"Sure," Sam laughed, retaining the authoritative tone, "What's my birthday?"

"Uh…May 3rd?"

"Dude, it's the 2nd." Sam was pretty sure Dean got that wrong on purpose, which actually said more than him getting it right.

"Whatever." Sam was right: Dean had gotten that wrong on purpose, and he tried to smile to prove it, but had forgotten how to. The fire was roaring again, melting the skin from his bones. He shrieked. "Sammy! Don't let it get me, Sam!" He wanted nothing more than for his fingers to remember how to work so he could close one—just one, was that so much to ask of his body?—around the fabric of his brother's shirt, to keep him there. If he could manage it, _nothing_ would ever part him from his brother, his rock, but his two-month-dead body wouldn't respond to his desperate commands.

Sam was focused elsewhere, abandoning him to the flames: "Bobby! Bobby, get me some morphine. We gotta put him out."

"Sammy—" Dean whined. _He better not leave…not again…_

Bobby was already speaking: "Sam, we don't know what that'll do to his memory—'specially like this—"

"Bobby, please. He's _exhausted_, and in _pain_."

This was more than clear: every muscle in Dean's body was wound against the pain, every limb trembled, and his head, with eyes squeezed tightly shut, jerked back and forth. He was whimpering. Sam was still crouched over him, cradling his body, laying a hand on his head and working some psychic power Bobby didn't understand. But Bobby trusted Sam, and Sam was serious.

"Okay," he said, and prepared a strong dose.

"Dean? Stay with me, Dean, listen to me. What do you want to eat? What's your favorite thing to eat?"

This required a bit of thought, because he definitely wasn't hungry now, but he understood what Sam was doing: "Um. I dunno, a Philly cheese steak sandwich?"

"Okay. Um." Sam's mind raced. "Shit. Uh. _Stairway to Heaven_, Dean. Tell me the lyrics."

Instantly the flames receded. This he could do. He took a shaky breath: "Yeah, okay. Um. Th-there's a lady who's sure—um—all that glitters is gold, and she's buying a st-stairway to heaven…"

"Good." It probably wasn't healthy to keep him talking, with his chest in the condition it was in—_shredded_ was a sufficient word—but Sam couldn't let him stop. He could feel his brother backsliding into nothingness each time he paused for breath.

"When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed, with a word she can get what she came for…" Dean gasped, not feeling the needle slide into his arm, but recognizing the onset of comfortable oblivion. He faltered a little at the blissful sensation.

"Come on, Dean: there's a feeling I get when I look to the West—"

"No, no." Trust Sam to get the Zepp wrong when it was a matter of life and death. "Th-there's a sign on the wall…"

"Sorry. Yeah, keep going. And she wants to be sure—"

"'Cause you know sometimes words have…two…meanings."

The flames were gone. Sam exhaled deeply.

With his last ounce of strength: "Now get the hell outta my brainpan…"

Sniggering at the exasperated half-laugh-half-sob from Sam was the last thing Dean remembered.

…

Dean woke comfortable. He was still in pain, but he was now comfortable in spite of it. The pain was behind a fence, barking at him, but safe.

He was trapped. He flinched—more pain—a few of the dogs released—but, no, blanket. Heavy, warm blanket. More than one. Not trapped. Safe. And a hand on his head and another on his chest, and a voice that, though he didn't recognize the words or even the owner at first, comforted him and kept him safe.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean, right here," he managed to hear. If the knowledge that he was safe from hell hadn't been calming enough, somehow knowing that his kid brother was what was keeping him safe was enough to relax him right through the mattress. He experimented with his eyelids as he allowed himself, now jelly, to be pushed back to the bed, but they weren't having any of it.

Fine. That was fine. Two could play at this game. I'm going back to fucking sleep. It's just good to feel so comfortable and safe and I'm going to sleep now, because I haven't had a good sleep in twenty years.

He was highly capable of fighting pain by now, but even if he hadn't been, no amount of pain was going to stand between Dean and some serious shut-eye right now.

His little brother's whining might, though.

"Just stay awake a couple more seconds, Dean. A few seconds…drink this…" he heard, distant, echoing, as if it traveled down a three-mile drainpipe to reach his ear. But he felt a hand behind his head and his throat muscles convulsed in a swallow on reflex more at this touch than at the feel of water on his tongue. The water was heavenly. And he no longer felt he could use that term lightly. He began gulping it down greedily, and groaned in protest when it was pried from his clinging lips. Then nothing. He lost all sense of time, of touch, taste, sight and sound. _Where am I?_ threatened to snap him awake, to compound the pain, but then he remembered:

Oh, yeah. I was going to take a nap. How could I forget?

…

The next time Dean awoke, he realized himself fully, albeit slowly, for the first time. He had been to hell. And was now back. Both courtesy of Sammy boy. The process of realization was complete calm: there were no traumatic flashbacks, no crying out, reaching out for a hand to hold, no tremors or tears. The memories were still close enough to burn, and burn they did, for he remembered _everything_ now, but he had evolved beyond pain recognition to a state of enlightened numbness. He still felt too tired to be sad or scared, anyway.

Dean opened his eyes. It was the crisp, cool, blue silence of early morning. He was in his room—the closest thing he'd ever had to his own room—and even then he'd always shared it with Sam—upstairs at Bobby's. Sam lay, not on the bed next to him, but in a chair beside his bed, his head resting beside Dean's elbow. He was completely out, drooling. Dean grinned faintly.

He waited, patiently, for Sam to awaken, as his brain put itself back together. Ever practical, it went straight to inventory. Damn, he was lucky Sam had grabbed him when he had, before they'd really laid into him. But then, keeping him alive for as long as possible was the _point_. Dean shuddered and began at the top: his head no longer hurt, and that was huge. He was pretty banged and slashed up, he was sure—ha, and they hadn't even been _trying_—but he felt bandages and stitches on him which, though they hurt, were a comfort after having gone so long with open wounds. He had almost forgotten what healing felt like. He felt a little warm—okay, hot, maybe—but a fever wasn't surprising or alarming: he'd survived plenty. He was hungry, and thirsty, but not urgently so. He was glad he didn't have to pee. He tried wiggling all his toes and fingers, and although the attempt at movement elicited a groan of serious pain, he was pleased to find he at least _could_ move, and had body parts left _to_ move.

Sam shifted next to him, and Dean reached a shaking hand to lay on the back of his neck. Sam relaxed into the touch at first, then woke with an undignified snort. His eyes went from hazily confused to intensely worried in seconds.

"Dean," he gasped.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean forced a grin. The emotion was not forced, only the physical expression, and he hoped it read on his face: nothing irritated Sam more than Dean's gameface when Dean was clearly in pain, and Dean knew he simply couldn't handle an argument with Sam right now.

Luckily, Sam smiled back, taking the hand away from the back of his neck to hold it between his own hands.

"Need anything?" Sam asked. They'd long ago learned when to skip _How you doing?_ because it was, most of the time, like now, only too obvious.

"Nah," Dean said, not truly needing anything—he was out of hell, what else could he possibly need?—before considering and conceding, "unless…water."

Sam nodded and stood up. Dean couldn't help the instinctive flinch as Sam moved away from him. But Sam had an idea—knew—that Dean needed his presence and he wasn't about to go into the next room without Dean's say-so, so he patted Dean's arm and reached his freakishly long limb to the end of the nightstand to grasp a new bottle of water, never breaking contact. He popped the seal, unscrewed the lid, stuck a straw in, and helped Dean lift his head.

Again, the water was so phenomenal that Dean couldn't bear to stop, though he drank it slowly. Sam pulled it out of his reach after a few sizeable gulps, responding to the frustrated groan that "We still gotta take it easy on your stomach, Dean. You can have some more water in a while. Or juice. How'd you like some juice?"

Dean nodded. Paused a minute. Swallowed. His brain wasn't going to win any derbies anytime soon, but Sam was patient. "Apple," he finally managed. He wasn't sure he remembered what apple juice tasted like, but you couldn't go wrong with the basics.

Sam nodded, grinned. Dean almost laughed in response. He got this wistful light in his eyes, like, _Apple juice I can do_, glad to be able to do something. "Okay!" he beamed. "We'll get you some apple juice. You want to go back to sleep now?" Now Dean really did laugh, for pure joy: Sam was skipping the chick-flick moment, the care-and-share, and that was about as magnanimous as Sam got. "…What?"

Dean shook his head, still grinning. "Nothing. Just. I'm back. So far this isn't a trick and…." He sighed. "It's all…" he struggled a moment, deciding "good," sufficed. He said it with as much emphasis as he could manage. This was more than the nonchalant _It's all good_. This was _good_ in the sense of _the antithesis of evil_. Everything was comfort, everything was joy, everywhere sunshine and fucking daisies. He'd made it. He'd survived. He was out of hell and alive with only the scars to deal with. A Winchester couldn't ask for much more.

Sam looked more and more like he was gonna cry by the second. Dean groaned and looked away. "Don't you dare, Sammy. If you—then I'll—I hold you personally responsible," he warned teasingly. He heard Sam sniffle, but he steadied himself.

As he stared at the opposite wall, feeling Sam once again slip his hand into his, he considered if he should thank Sam for rescuing him from the pit. No, he decided. Sam would take it as an insult, as well he should. He owed it to him, not just because it was because of Sam that he ended up there in the first place (although that wasn't a fair assessment and they both knew it), but just because they were brothers. That was what brothers just did.

Still, the grateful thankfulness that he was finally out of that stinking, rotting _pit_ was more than the normally disturbingly stoic Dean could keep under wraps. "Dude. I totally owe you," he hoped sufficed.

Sam bristled a little, and Dean flinched, hoping Sam wouldn't take offense. But Sam relaxed: "You owe me, like, six, but who's counting?" Then, more seriously. "It's what brothers do."

Dean felt tears stinging to escape his eyeballs. "Sammy," he warned, blinking furiously. Sam laughing at him helped, even though he was pretty sure it was the laugh-cry that was so characteristic of emotional Sam. He turned his head to make sure.

"How you been?"

Now Sam really did look mad. "_What_?"

A flash of panicked anger heated Dean up a little. What was the kid's problem, taking offense at something like that? "_What_ 'what'? I asked how you were doing," Dean repeated, trying not to let himself get worked up enough to expend energy he seriously didn't have, because fainting in the middle of a fight with Sam was rather high on his list of things to never ever do. In fact, he was pretty sure it came directly after never going back _there_.

Sam didn't stay angry long, though: he changed swiftly to exasperated, crushed. "Dean. You were just in _hell_. However I'm doing, I _promise_ you I'm doing better than you, okay? So it doesn't even _matter_. Why are you even asking?"

Dean didn't want to fight, though his tongue was twitching with how badly he wanted to start off his next sentence with _Fuck you, Sam_. He would try the guilt-trip angle, but didn't think it would work. He rolled his eyes. "I kind of went to fucking hell to make sure you were fucking all right, Sam, so don't ask why I want to fucking know." Okay, yeah, so much for not being angry. Sam looked a little sheepish, so Dean continued. "And if _my_ brother'd been to hell I know damn well there'd be no way _I'd_ be all right, so I'm figuring you haven't—however long I've been gone—"

"Okay, Dean, I'm sorry," Sam urged, sufficiently chagrined, holding Dean down as he struggled futilely to lift his head in his tirade. "Sorry. I'm just—it's been hard on me, all right? Was that what you wanted to hear? I'm sorry. I shouldn't've snapped at you."

Dean blinked. That was easy. Now he just felt guilty. And really tired. "Okay. Okay, yeah, me too."

"You have an excuse. You're allowed to snap at me after…something like that."

"So do you."

This time, Sam let it go. He nodded. It _had_ been hell for him, too. If it hadn't been, Dean would have been offended.

Dean rallied, his good humor returned. "Really, all I meant was I've been out of the loop for a while. Just asking if I missed anything."

Sam was still staring at the bedspread. "Nothing good."

"So you didn't get laid? Not once?"

The snort was impossible to hide, even though Sam was trying to retain serious brooding mode. Dean could have killed him. Instead he settled for making him laugh. "You really are pathetic. How long have I been gone?"

"Two months."

Dean took this quite well, considering it had seemed—_been_—much longer for him. Sam saw this, but didn't push the issue.

"Um. I once—" Sam began hurriedly, trying to keep the mood light. He laughed suddenly at a memory, "I _did_ have to—now that you mention it—I sorta, um. This is kinda funny. Do you remember a, um, Heather Dawson?"

Dean squinted, and not just because of the current slowness of his brain. "Should I?"

"Yeah. Some diner waitress—"

"Oh! In Oklahoma, yeah." Dean remembered blonde and busty and really freaking good pancakes, but then, that was most of them.

"I sorta had to…ahem…sweet-talk her on the phone, she had some names I needed…"

Dean grinned so wide it hurt his face. "Did my boy go through my cell and phone-sex my contacts?"

Sam bit his lip to keep from laughing or puking. "Yeah, it kinda ended up that way. Pretending to be you was really awkward."

"Did she figure it out?"

"Dude. It's me."

"Shoulda known, Sammy. Proud of you. That's almost getting laid." He paused, closed his eyes, then opened one and looked at him. "Which you're free to do, by the way, if you want to. Any time. Now that I'm back. I don't want to keep you here. If, um," suddenly nervous, "so long as, if Bobby's here, or..." suddenly awkward, "I, um, don't think I want to be alone yet."

Sam shook his head, laying a comforting hand on Dean's arm, which was now shaking faintly. "No way, man. I'm not leaving this house until you're up and about. I head out of here next, you're coming with me. Your baby misses you, anyway. Don't think she'll go another mile for me."

"What'd you do to my car?" Dean demanded, his almost-fear from a moment ago forgotten.

Sam laughed. "Nothing, she's fine. I just don't have the magic touch."

Dean nodded. Then he smiled wryly.

"Bet that's not what Heather'd say."


	2. Sad But True

_A/N: Even though I love seeing where the show's going now, __**the best thing ever**__ would have been Sam rescuing Dean from Hell. Sam drinking demon blood and killing things with his brain is so much more palatable if it's for Dean's sake, to rescue him. So I wrote Sam getting Dean out of Hell. Then, unsatisfied, I wrote it again. And again._

_So here are three different versions of Sam rescuing Dean from Hell. Not sure which one I like best, and would love it if you decide to review and let me know which one you liked best. There's a lot of repeated material, and if y'all can help me decide on a "best" then I can transfer all the good stuff into one version._

_So, obviously, very AU. Dean isn't in Hell for as long, Sam's powers are advanced in different ways, Ruby isn't even mentioned, etc. _

_HELL II: SAD BUT TRUE – My least favorite of the three, except that this is my favorite version of Hell._

_**Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural. If I did, it might go something like this:**_

…

Hell was surprisingly predictable. It was everything it was cracked up to be: burning torment, stinging agony, ruthless mercilessness. But what really got you—what you didn't expect, or, even if you did expect it, there was no way to really know it subjectively until you experienced it—was the totality of it, the finality. It was discomfort in every conceivable way. It wasn't just that you were on the rack. You were on the rack that was also a bed of spikes, the bonds that held your arms and legs were made of sharp wires, it was snowing hailstorm on your face, the air was cold and burned your lungs, your eyes had been carved out, you were hungry, you had to pee, a whip kept favoring the _exact_ same spot with each stroke, your nose itched, and every other uncomfortable thing that could possibly be wrong was wrong. It was misery on a complete level. And you knew it was going to be like this forever. It took the first few times they killed you and brought you back before you realized what forever meant. It meant that this torture was never going to stop.

Never.

The head games also came as a shocker, although the fact that head games were an element of hell wasn't itself surprising. The main one was that while you were in all this agony, the demons were watching. They watched closely, missing nothing, licking their lips. They booed when you fought, and cheered when you broke. And they played on your hopes as much as on your fears. It was worse when they toyed with your hopes. Dean was screaming for Sam, his only hope. And Sam came. It wasn't Sam, of course. It never was. Not-Sam continued coming to rescue him until he stopped hoping.

But he never could stop hoping. This was one head game they couldn't exhaust.

…

The sudden light was unexpected, and Dean shut his eyes against it. At least he _had_ eyelids to shut this time. That was a comfort. They must be slipping.

They had left him just hanging there, in that great lightless, sweltering void, for he didn't know how long. Years. A mind-numbingly long time. Just hanging. From chains, from rough ropes, from wires, from _meat hooks_…

"God, Dean."

It was still too bright. Dean didn't bother opening his eyes. He hoped the voice might go away. It sounded too much like another head game, and dear God he did not want to play this right now. He couldn't take it. But then, that was the idea, wasn't it? Maybe if he saw through it early enough, refused to go along with it…

His limbs were pulled taut in every direction so that when his right arm came loose it practically snapped against him, like a rubber band. Excruciatingly. He could feel one of the demons looming over him, gloating, and he wondered if his wrist coming loose had been a mistake. Could he be so lucky? Just landing one solid punch could make five years down here more bearable.

Before the demon could correct its mistake and pin him again, Dean's fist flew. And connected. _Ha!_ Then, _Shit!_ His hand—he'd forgotten, or hadn't known—all the damage ran together at a point—wasn't much of a hand anymore, mangled and bloody. Striking the demon sent a shock of agony through him. But still he managed a bloody grin. Whatever they gave him in return would be worth it for a while yet. He had worked it out that if he thought of it in increments it didn't seem quite as bad. And now he could manage to tell them to _stick_ _it where the sun don't shine_ with sufficiently defiant gusto.

But the demon wasn't mad. It didn't lash out immediately. What was it waiting for? Did it have something more devilish planned? Was it going to exact its revenge slowly, methodically?

It _sighed_. With _relief_. And "Thank God," it said. "You're still there." And it held his now-lax arm against its shoulder, pressing the palm of his hand against its face.

Now Dean was just curious. If this was another head game, they were going about it wrong. You can't trick someone properly if they don't get what's supposed to be going on.

The light was gallingly—he had, by now, come up with some ingenious synonyms for _pain_—like the Inuit had like 20 different words for snow—bright, so that he couldn't see beyond it. But, no, it _was_ the light, if only because everything else was darkness.

There was something else, Dean realized suddenly. These demons didn't—couldn't—no matter what else they said or were trying to do, they never said "God." Not at all, and certainly not in that _voice_…

"Sam?"

How he hated himself for still hoping. It was going to hurt later. More than the retaliation for the punch. But now the light—could it be Sam? Please, God—was releasing him further. He was free of the meat hooks. His legs were free, and his other arm, all the ropes and wires coiled around him dropped off. This—being rescued—being reunited with his brother—was hardly a new scenario, but they had never released him before. That was new. Either they had thrown the head games into a whole new gear, or…

"I'm Luke Skywalker, I'm here to rescue you."

Yep. Sammy.

Dean inhaled sharply—it might have been a gasp of fear, or disbelief—and choked. He tried to speak, but his head was too clouded with relief and hope—_damn_ him but he was beyond hope now, he was full-on _relieved_—to allow him even to think. There were levels to helplessness, and he had reached rock bottom: he was beyond struggling, beyond movement, and had now progressed beyond being unable to make sarcastic-jackass remarks and couldn't even think straight.

Dean could only groan as Sam wrapped strong arms around him and pulled him towards a circle that was glowing, bright like him. A portal? Some way of escape? Dean stiffened in excitement, not able to keep himself from hoping that this was it, that he was free, that Sammy was really here rescuing him, that he was seconds from safety. All he managed, in his desperation, was to hook his elbow through Sam's arm and in this way half-cling to him, but the grip was weak and little more than for his own sanity.

"Easy, Dean," Sam shushed gently, mistaking the change in his brother's body for fear. "I got you." He grunted with effort as he pulled Dean along.

Then the air changed, and they were surrounded. _God, no. No, please…_ It would be just like them to let Sam, real or no, free him only to kill him mere inches from safety. Kill Sam, make him watch, and then drag him back to the rack. But Sam was prepared, somehow, could fight them, had done his research like the geek he was, and there was a flash of light so bright it practically deafened as well as blinded, and the whole flock of them was thrown back. With a grunt Sam heaved Dean and himself within the circle and all was quiet.

Dean waited for the restart button. That was another favorite game of theirs. To make him think he'd won and then suddenly spring him back to square one. But this wasn't a head game. Nothing fit. This was his brother. It _had_ to be.

Dean forced his eyes open. Yep, looked like Sam, gulping in air over him, protecting him. Dean was lying beneath a circle of some great power he couldn't hope to understand, not now, anyway. The room was lit by only a few candles: a comfortable dimness. It was a comfortable temperature: perhaps a bit cool, but that was a heavenly descriptor compared to where he'd been. He was lying on something hard, but not actively malicious. He felt like hell, but that was to be expected.

Jiggling his head to look Sam in the eye required more strength than he could spare, but he managed it anyway:

"Aren't you a little short for a Stormtrooper?"

…

When Dean woke, he knew once and for all that he was out of hell.

"Oh God," he groaned, with relief that was palpable. Then, "Oh, shit," he added, in a louder voice, because _damn_, he still hurt. _All_ _over_.

"Dean?" Dean couldn't quite see straight, but a blurry Sam had taken his uninjured left hand in his and was giving him the Goddamned wistful puppy-dog-eyes.

"Sam?" he barely managed, because speaking was suddenly very agonizing and very difficult. "S-Sammy?" A groan, a hitched breath, a sudden flash of irrational terror. "God, don't leave me, Sam. Please, God, shit, don't leave me, Sammy." The idea of Sam leaving him now was hellish—and he felt he had earned the right to use and _mean_ that word now. For all the weakness and nausea and agony, Dean surprised himself with the strength with which he gripped Sam's hand: it was a strength his body didn't have, couldn't really afford, except that it was born of panic and relief—and his relief alone was limitless. Actually, the only part of him that didn't hurt right now was the part that knew Sam was here and that _here_ was out of hell.

Sam touched the side of his face, and—God, what next? Eating quiche?—Dean leaned into the touch, unaware that he had been crying until he felt Sam's thumb coaxing tears away from his face. "Dean, it's okay, I'm here. I got you, bro, and I'm not leaving. Just rest, get your strength back. You're absolutely safe, okay? I'm looking after you." He said _absolutely_ in that annoying know-it-all voice, and Dean had never been happier to hear it. He was pretty sure he sniffled as he nodded.

_No._ Dean Winchester did not sniffle. Nor did he cry. Not in front of Sam. Dean suddenly remembered that his dignity's reunion tour was _way_ overdue.

He struggled with the urge to whimper or throw up until he had them both tied up and thrown in a closet. He swallowed hard. When he felt it was safe, he opened his eyes and took a cautiously deep breath. "Yeah. No, no. I-I'm all right, Sam," he managed. It was weak, but firm. "Sorry. Let me—I wanna stay awake a minute."

Sam nodded, patting his arm, suddenly, immediately understanding Dean's need for a more manly, heterosexual version of comfort. "Okay, Dean, sure. Can you drink some water?"

"Uh. Yeah." Dean nodded, and allowed Sam to help him lift his head and hold the glass. At least he could swallow on his own. It took more energy than he thought it would, however, and when his head hit the pillow again he had closed his eyes. He took a minute to recoup, and then, as a burning question wouldn't leave him alone, he opened his eyes again:

"How'd you get me outta there, Sam?" Okay, so the voice was a little breathless, like a girl after her first time, but he was improving.

Sam sighed and shuddered a little, as if an ache came suddenly back to him, or he remembered something terrifying. "I, uh. Basically, I opened a summoning circle. Dark magic, used some of my powers, I—" Dean stiffened, but Sam gave him the freaking doe-eyes. "I'm sorry, Dean, but, you were in _hell_. I had no choice."

"Sam," Dean growled, "you—I told you—"

"Don't _even_ say it, Dean. You had a choice, too, as I recall, and bringing _me_ back didn't exactly have Good Witch of the West written all over it."

Dean opened his mouth.

Sam pursed his lips and dared him to say anything.

Dean closed his mouth and looked away. Then he looked back up: "Thanks, man."

"Don't mention it."

"Sam—"

"No, _seriously_. Don't mention it."

Dean nodded. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn't, not yet. There was more: "How you doin', Sammy?" Dean flashed him a smile that was small and transparent enough that Sam could still see the hurt behind it.

Sam wilted, upset and approaching angry. Why was Dean always so concerned with _him_? He had just been to _hell_ and still all he could think about was being the macho overly-protective big brother. "I'm _fine_, Dean." Then he paused, thought a moment, and, realizing, added, "I mean, I'm better now. It was…you know, I missed you."

"Okay, okay, wasn't asking for the chick-flick moment."

"So you'd rather I was perfectly fine and carefree while you were suffering in hell?"

Dean frowned, actually in serious thought over what Sam intended to be rhetorical. "Well…I guess…I mean, I went there to make sure you—"

"_Damn_ it, Dean. Just—just go to sleep, please? I can't talk to you until you're ready to take a hit if I need to punch you."

Dean only laughed. It was quiet, and weak, but characteristically sophomoric nonetheless. While at any other time this would have made Sam want to punch him even more, he couldn't help letting the slow burn turn into a grin. Dean punctuated the laughter with the charming smile he saved for police officers and authority figures. "Can't say it'd be a fair fight. Maybe I can hold my right hand behind my back?"

Sam sighed, the grin fixed on his face. "You should be kissing my ass, dude."


	3. My Friend of Misery

_A/N: Even though I love seeing where the show's going, __**the best thing ever**__ would have been Sam rescuing Dean from Hell. Sam drinking demon blood and killing things with his brain is so much more palatable if it's for Dean's sake, to rescue him. So I wrote Sam getting Dean out of Hell. Then, unsatisfied, I wrote it again. And again._

_So here are three different versions of Sam rescuing Dean from Hell. Not sure which one I like best, and would love it if you decide to review and let me know which one you liked best. There's a lot of repeated material, and if y'all can help me decide on a "best" then I can transfer all the good stuff into one version._

_So, obviously, very AU. Dean isn't in Hell for as long, Sam's powers are advanced in different ways, Ruby isn't even mentioned, etc. _

_HELL III: MY FRIEND OF MISERY – As Supernatural tends to use good old fashioned lore to solve it's problems rather than making stuff up, I melded the Faust/The Devil and Daniel Webster and Orpheus/Orfeo stories here._

_**Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural. If I did, it might go something like this:**_

…

"So just three years in law school was enough to _equivocate_ me out of hell? You're smarter than I thought."

"Nice million-dollar word, there, dude, _you're_ smarter than I thought. But it wasn't law school. I was going _into_ law school before you came and got me."

Grinning helped Dean ignore the absurd amount of agony he was in. "Yeah, saved your ass." He forced down a groan, hoping talking would help: "Now—now you're saving mine…with only three years of schoolin'."

"And two months of practicing killing things with my brain," Sam added lightly.

Dean choked.

"Don't look so shocked, Dean," Sam snapped in reply to the look of abject horror on Dean's face, "it's not like _your_ deal was exactly squeaky clean, either." Before Dean could protest, Sam shook his head. "I don't even know why I'm talking about this. We'll argue later. We're not out of here yet."

"What?" Dean groaned and shuddered. If _not being out of this yet_ meant he had to do anything but fall on his nose, this was not going to be pretty. The demons hadn't worked him over nearly as bad this time as they had been wont to do in the past, but it was all relative. It was still _hell_. "I thought you—I thought I'm free…"

"You are. It's just—we have to—let's just say payback's a bitch. I wasn't nice, and they're not either. Can you move at all?"

"I—I'm honestly not sure," Dean murmured, staring with glassy eyes away into the darkness. He began to babble, knowing that if he didn't keep himself conscious by talking that he just wasn't staying conscious. "Been tied up so long I—"

"Okay, it's okay, I'll help you, forget I asked. I'll carry you if I need to—"

Dean rallied with a deep breath. "No. No way, Sammy. Please, don't, I—I'll figure it out—I'll walk." He moved his legs experimentally, his breath hitching as a bolt of pain shot up his right leg to focus on his groin, of all places. _Shit, that hurts._

"Okay, Dean, but listen to me. This is very important. This is that legalistic nitty-gritty fine print shit, and it's _important_." Sam waited until Dean met his eyes before he continued. "You must _not_, whatever you do, ever _look back_—"

"Right, 'cause I'm totally gonna miss this place. No problem, Sam."

"I mean it, Dean. You _can't_ look back. Or around. Or do anything but look straight ahead. If you do, everything's off. You go back, and not even God can save you. You know, like Orpheus, or Lot."

A moment of thought, of incomprehension, as if he hadn't been listening, and then Dean bridled. He looked up at Sam wide-eyed. "Wait. I don't want to be the chick."

Sam did a double-take. "You mean you actually know what I'm talking about?"

"Damn it, Sam, how many times I need to tell you? I do know how to read."

"Right. I just didn't think you ever _did_." Sam winked, but continued before Dean could come back with anything else. "Anyway, if you want to get technical about it _I'm_ Eurydice, because it doesn't matter if I look back or not. It's just you. So there, you get to be Orpheus." Dean grinned a little: that helped. "Actually, Dean, you'd better just close your eyes, just so they can't pull any stunts." Dean did close his eyes, obediently, although he also obliged so promptly mainly because he felt his strength waning. "And I _mean_ it, Dean. Don't open them. Not for any reason. Even if it sounds like I'm in trouble. I know they'll try to trick you. Don't fall for it."

"_Okay_, Sam, I got it, Jesus…" Dean faltered and paused.

"Dean?"

Dean swallowed hard, and didn't bother opening his eyes. Sam was not gonna like this: "What if you _are_ in trouble?" he asked quietly, bracing himself for the lecture he knew he was going to get. He didn't even dare opening his eyes or lifting his head.

Sam snarled. "_Especially_ then, Dean. Please. Please just let me take care of everything. I'll look after you. I'll look after myself. You trust me, don't you?"

Dean groaned, knotting his brow. "Damn it, Sam, of course."

"Please, Dean. Don't screw this up. I don't want to—if I have to lose you again, I—"

"Okay, stow it. If you say you can't live without me I'll take my chances with Alastair. I'll—" Sam was glad to see Dean really considering the proposition before him before he spoke, instead of giving a flippant answer Sam wanted to hear. Dean exhaled slowly. "I—I won't look, okay? I'll let you drive this leg of the trip."

"Promise me, Dean. You can't open your eyes or do anything."

"All right, I promise. Don't think I could…manage…anyway…"

"Dean?" Dean felt Sam gripping him under his arms as he began to slip away. "Dean? Stay with me, man. We gotta move out. We've wasted too much time already."

"That's 'cause you talk too much," Dean slurred. He was really not well, despite—or perhaps as evidenced by—his cocky banter, which had helped them both to ignore his condition until now, when they really had to leave. His body was weak—about as strong as Sam should have expected it to be after two months of imprisonment, starvation and torture. His wrists and ankles were bloodied masses from fighting against chains, and he had been—Sam had almost puked at the sight—hanging suspended from a network of meat hooks, the holes from which riddled his body. When Sam had demanded he be released, the demons hadn't been nice about it and dropped Dean from a great height onto what passed, in here, for corporeal ground. Aside from this he was covered in whip-stripes, burn-marks, and bruises. Sam naïvely thought how it was a wonder they hadn't killed him. Dean knew better.

There was no time to give him a medical once-over, so he just chose the arm that looked _less_ bloody and bent of the two and hauled it over his shoulder.

"Okay, Dean, on the count of three I'm standing up. Just stay with me, help however you can, but remember I got you."

"Kay, Sammy." Dean sounded—was—far away. _Remember I got you_ was all he heard, but that was the most important part. He repeated it in his head like a mantra.

"And don't look back. Don't even open your eyes."

"Already promised, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes. "And don't call me Sammy. Not when I'm executing a daring rescue of your sorry ass."

Dean snorted. "I've changed your diapers, dude. I get to call you Sammy whenever I damn well please."

"Yeah, whatever, jerk. Three."

Before Dean could say "bitch," white-hot pain exploded behind Dean's closed eyeballs as Sam hoisted him to his feet. He would have bet anything that a pitiful sound like a moan or a whimper or a sob escaped him as they stood, but he couldn't be sure, because he half blacked out. When he was conscious again, and felt it was safe to speak without fear of puking or fainting, he reined his voice in to its customary register and growled: "You are such a bitch."

They were already moving, and Dean struggled to connect his brain to his legs so Sam didn't have to carry all of his weight. But it was hard going, and slow. Dean couldn't believe how pathetic he felt and was. Even though he had one _hell_ of an excuse. And what bugged and soothed him, at the same time, most, was that Sam was so _patient_. So helpful and gentle and good grief why can't they just hug and cry and bake muffins together and get the chick flick moment over with already?

"It's all right, Dean, you're doing great," Sam said to a stumble and snarl of frustration, mistaking it for pain. "I got you, come on," he encouraged, unaware that what encouraged Dean the most was his own anger at being treated like such a child. Then again, maybe Sam did know, and did it anyway. Damn Sam—no, not damn, never damn, _curse_ maybe—and his ability to read him like a freaking book. Granted, he could do it to Sam, just as easily, even with his eyes closed. Dean was doing it now: Sam was nervous. Afraid. But Dean didn't think Sam was afraid for himself. Sam was afraid for Dean. But below the fear, supporting it, Dean felt a resolved strength. Sam wasn't letting him go. As long as he felt that, Dean could keep his eyes closed. No problem.

It was almost comical, because at the very moment Dean began to feel safe with his brother supporting him, Sam loosened his hold, lowering him to the floor suddenly. Dean groaned, arched his back, flashed a cold sweat. "Sam?"

"Hang on, Dean, I've gotta put you down." Sam hissed, while still attempting to speak gently. Dean didn't think Sam was even looking at him. "Don't open your eyes. I'll be right back."

"Sammy?" he said, but the touch was gone, and he was pawing at the air. _Okay, breathe,_ he told the panic. _Sam will come. He'll be right back. Don't open your eyes. Whatever happens—_

Sounds of battle. Winged demons dive-bombing. A cry from Sam.

"Sam?!" Dean forced himself to his knees, somehow, but managed to remember to keep his eyes closed. Noises came from everywhere, it was still abysmally hot, and he couldn't focus. No way he could even stand, much less help…

No way he'd sit here idly by while his brother took what was intended for him, though, either.

Dean was so focused on urging his broken body to its feet—still keeping his eyes closed, closed until the last possible second, because as much he had to save Sam, he _really_ did not want to go back there—that he stopped paying attention to his surroundings. Otherwise, he would have heard or felt or smelled the demon advancing on him. Fingers closing around his arm snapped Dean into action: it was a shadow of his former skill, but he grabbed the arm, twisted it, and scored a punch.

"Ow! Shit, Dean! It's me!"

"Sam?" Dean almost opened his eyes in shock, or just to make sure.

"Come on, Dean, we gotta go," Sam was saying, yanking him to his feet with an urgent strength Dean didn't expect. They took off at a breakneck speed, and Dean was struggling to keep conscious, much less on his feet. But he was used to dealing with pain now, and wasn't about to complain.

Then, as quickly as they took off, they stopped again. Dean was breathing heavily and Sam was practically carrying him, but Dean was too tired to care.

"Dean?" Dean was suddenly on the ground, shoved up against a wall for support, and Sam was shaking him. Had he passed out? "Dean, come on, man. Open your eyes. Wake up, Dean, come on. You're safe now, open your eyes."

"Sammy? What happened, man?" Dean asked, breathless. He didn't want to open his eyes just yet. He was still too tired.

"You passed out, Dean. But I need you to get going now. Just a bit further. Open your eyes, look at me, man."

"Quit being such a bitch," Dean groaned. "Give me a minute."

He could _feel_ Sam pouting, felt the breath of his huff. "I'm trying to help you, Dean. What're you calling me a bitch for?"

Dean went still.

"Dean? What's wrong?"

He swallowed hard.

"Dean?"

"You're not Sam." He had begun trembling.

"What? Dean, it's okay. I promise, it's not a trick, it's me this time."

Dean was shaking his head, trying to sit up, trying to move away. "No, no, no. You're not him. Stop—Sam!"

"Dean, if you'd just _look_ you'd see! It's me!"

The Demon-Sam was leaning in close to his face, with an earnestness that was typical Sam, and Dean faltered: maybe it was really him? The arms Dean thrust out protectively in front of himself slackened, wanting to believe.

"Come on, Dean. If you don't open your eyes we can't go any further. Do you want me to leave you here?"

With a grimace, Dean pulled back his fist and connected it with the thing's face like a lightning strike. Definitely _not_ Sammy. He guessed it had been hoping to panic him, but he knew easy as breathing there was no way Sam would even mention leaving him, not here, not for any reason. A kick followed the punch, and he managed to grab the demon's arm as it counter-attacked and landed another solid punch to its kidneys before it took the inevitable upper hand. He couldn't fight something he couldn't see—much less a badass superstrong demon—especially in his current condition—but there was no way he was opening his eyes. He promised Sam. Sam would find him. Sam would come.

He was succumbing to the rapid-fire envelopment of pain. He was losing, slipping, it was dragging him back, and true intense panic flashed through him, threatening to open his eyes on instinct. He shoved his fists into his eyes, blocking his body with his forearms, and curled himself up into a tight ball as blow after blow broke him into smaller and smaller pieces. _Just wait it out. Sam will come_. Most of hell had been like this. Waiting out the pain, surviving the pain. Waiting for Sam to come. He could wait a little longer.

"_Sam!!_" He hadn't screamed that word that intensely since Sam had died.

There was an explosion. A blast of warm air—though cool by comparison with that around him—rocked over him, and blinding light strove to sear through his eyelids. The pain stopped, suddenly, and he was alone. Dean maintained his fetal position, every muscle he still had command of tense with fear. He hated not being able to help himself, being unable to even look around. He liked to think he might have managed protecting himself if he could see. But he had promised Sam he wouldn't open his eyes.

Out of the darkness, out of the all-encompassing, ever-increasing pain, something grabbed him. Dean gasped and fought, but it pinioned him after he landed only one pathetic hit.

"Dean! Dean, it's all right, it's me!"

_Sam_?

The voice hugged him against its chest. It was solid, and it felt and smelled like Sam. "God, Dean, shit, I'm so sorry. I can't believe I let them take you. Are you okay?" It sounded like Sam, too, but Dean didn't answer, afraid of another trick. But that tear-choked chick-flick voice, _that_ couldn't be faked. "I won't let it happen again. Thanks for hanging in there. Not opening your eyes."

"H-he said he was you, Sammy," Dean whispered. He was shaking now, and the hands that had been trying to push the threat away were now clinging to the fabric of Sam's shirt. He hated how instantly relief had turned him into a blubbering infant. Although, maybe that was the additional pain, talking, too. "B-but he told me to open my eyes. I knew—knew you w-wouldn't do that. You made me promise. But, _God_, Sammy, he said he'd leave—"

"It's okay, Dean. I got you now, and I won't leave you. No matter what. Just keep your eyes shut. Stay strong."

Dean nodded, taking in a shaky breath. "How will I know it's you? Next time."

"Hopefully there won't be a next time," Sam said, lifting Dean gently to his feet. "But I'll let you know. I promise."

And they were off. The speed wasn't as fast as the demon, but Dean could feel Sam picking up the pace from the previous run. He wondered distantly if they were on a time limit. He began to lose consciousness until he felt Sam letting go of him again. He whined, unable to help himself, and the rush of fear-adrenaline helped him snap to full consciousness.

"It's okay, Dean. I'll be right here."

A second time Dean sat by and listened to the sounds of fighting. Balling his fists in helpless rage, he only barely managed to keep his eyes closed and his ass in park. The demons' screams were mortal ones, and Sam's cries were little more than grunts of manageable pain. That helped.

When something grabbed him again, out of the darkness, Dean stiffened.

"I'm Luke Skywalker, I'm here to rescue you."

_Yup. Sammy. _

Dean grinned. "I dunno if that's good enough. They could show _Star Wars_ in the staff lounge here, too, you know." He hoped his gushing appreciation didn't tell too much in his voice.

"Oh, shut up, you jerk. Let's go."

"'Kay," Dean said, too weary to add the obligatory "bitch," as he allowed Sam once again to haul him to his feet.

The voice which echoed behind them was an immediate buzz-kill:

"Not so fast, Dean."

Dean was suddenly very cold, and he couldn't feel Sam beside him anymore.

"Alastair." Dean fell to his knees. He didn't need to open his eyes to know this one.

"Why, hello, Dean. Or should I say _goodbye_? I can't help but feel some sadness at this departure. We did have some good times together."

So he was just letting him go, then? That was too easy.

"Where's Sam?" Dean demanded, still keeping his eyes clamped shut. He was on his hands and knees, alone. He turned around, facing—near as he could guess—the road back to hell. The road he wasn't supposed to look back at. "Where's my brother?"

"The gate's right behind you, you know. _Etartni'hc iov aznareps engo etaicsal_ it reads from this angle, but that's backwards of course: _Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate._" Dean could _feel_ the bastard grinning. A grin that would haunt his nightmares forever, all the more because he couldn't see it. "_Abandon all hope, ye who enter here._ Shame we brought you in the back way, otherwise you might have known better."

"That wasn't what I asked," Dean snarled. "Where's my brother?"

"Well, of course he wouldn't tell _you_. You're far too heroic, Dean. I think that's why we get on so great together. Yin and Yang."

"Bite me, Alastair. _Where is my brother_?"

"He's staying right here with me. A soul for a soul."

_No_…

"You're lying."

_He's gotta be lying—Please, God, be lying—Sam wouldn't…_

"Have I ever lied to you before, Dean?"

_Shit. Sam would. Of course he would. Shitshitshitshit…_

"Something has to be paid. We're just taking back what was rightfully ours and you stole from—"

"_SAM!!_"

This scream put all the others to shame. He'd be _damned_—literally—if Sam was going to take this bullet for him. Dean would do _anything_ not to have to go back there, but not this. Never this. If the choice was his ass in hell or Sam's, well, it just wasn't a choice. At all. Dean's eyes sprang open.

But he saw nothing. A hand was clamped over his eyes, wrenching him back.

"Dean! Dean, it's me, don't look! He's lying, Dean. Close your eyes."

"Sammy?" Dean clutched at the wrist. Sam was holding him in an absolutely unacceptable personal-space-invading manner, one arm wrapped around his chest, the other around his head. And Dean found himself leaning into the touch. "Sam, you—you can't—"

"Come on, Dean, close your eyes! Don't look!"

"I'm not letting you go there for me, Sam!" Dean cried, attempting to tear Sam's hand away from his eyes so he could stare Alastair down and save his baby brother for the final time.

Sam threatened to crush his head with how tightly he held his struggling brother. "I'm _not_, Dean! Snap out of it! I'm here, okay, and we're both getting out, but we have to go now!"

Dean sobered, relaxed a little. He only now realized that he had reached back and was gripping Sam's hair, pulling it tightly. He let go suddenly. "You promise me, Sammy?"

"What?"

"Promise. Th-that you're not trading your soul for mine?"

"God, Dean, no!" Sam squeezed him, gently, a jumbled hug. "I would if I had to, you know that—" Dean stiffened: not what he wanted to hear, so Sam continued hurriedly, "but that's not what it took…" he laughed grimly, his voice ironic. "Dark magic and killing demons with my brain is as far as I went on this one. Scout's honor."

Dean was relieved enough to smile a little at the lightness. Then he just sorta melted, feeling suddenly weak and tired and shaky. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed Sam's hand—which was still over his eyes—into his head. Now he just felt pathetic: the _one_ job Dean had been given, keeping his eyes closed, he couldn't do without Sam helping him. "Okay, Sam." He gulped. "Where's Alastair?"

"He's still here. But he can't do anything. He tried pulling me away. I got free. Just hold onto me, okay, Dean? And don't—"

"Look back, I know. Promised, Sammy."

"I know, Dean," Sam said as they began moving. The pain was sharp, making bile rise to his throat with every step.

"You promised, too."

"Yeah. I know."

Hell tried not to act too upset when its prized possession, its favorite trophy, walked out its doors, but the palpable _damn, foiled again,_ that erupted behind him made Dean smile. This wasn't a trick. This was real. A blast of cool, clean-smelling air hit him. This was the earth. His realm. And, God, how he'd missed it.

…

"Sam, can I open my eyes now?" he said, like a kid at Christmas.

"It's not much, but yeah."

Dean's eyes scanned a desert landscape, vibrant with color. Blueish sagebrush and yellow grass speckled the brown dirt. It was day, and the sky was impossibly blue. The crisp wind teased his hair, making him shiver. A hawk shrieked as it wheeled in the red cliffs above them. God, it was beautiful. Dean had never been much for views or oohing and aahing at scenery, but here he actually went weak in the knees, eliciting a "Whoa!" from Sam as he was forced to lower his suddenly boneless brother to sit on a nearby rock.

"Just let me look for a minute," Dean breathed as Sam tried to tug him to his feet again, and, after a moment, Sam knelt beside him, still gripping him, supporting him. Sam, too, became lost in the view. It _really_ wasn't much, some Godforsaken wasteland in eastern New Mexico, but it was home. That was what mattered. It wasn't perfect, it certainly wasn't heaven, but it wasn't hell, either, and, importantly, it was home. All of it.

With a sudden sharp breath, Dean snapped out of his reverie, if he had been in one at all, and turned to survey his brother. To Dean, home had never been a place: home was _people_. "Let me look at you, Sammy," he said, and Sam squirmed a bit, but Dean clutched at him desperately, gripping his shoulders to pull him into view. "You okay?" Dean rasped.

Sam frowned. _Dean_ was the one who had been in hell, _Dean_ was the one covered in blood, _Dean_ shouldn't even be thinking about him now, he had some sick mental disease where he just wasn't capable of thinking about himself… "Dean, I'm _fine_—" But Sam's anger melted at the earnest, wistful, _hungry_ look in his brother's eyes as he scrutinized his younger brother. This was helping him. God knew why—Sam sure didn't—but seeing his brother was a balm to his wounded soul if anything was. It made Sam self-conscious, and kneeling in front of his brother while he searched him with his eyes was about nine levels of awkward, but he forced himself to give Dean his best smile.

Dean was out of hell, and he wasn't going any further until he made a meticulous inspection of his brother. Sam was a little gaunt, and darkness and pain were in his eyes that hadn't been there before—that he had caused, Dean thought with a groan—but he seemed well enough physically. If he had been injured in hell, it didn't show. "Don't worry, it's not my blood," Sam supplied helpfully, and grinned. Mainly, Dean focused on that grin: he looked ten years younger with that smile—of _pure_ I-have-my-brother-back joy—if sadder and wiser than when he'd seen it last. Dean loved it when Sam smiled because it meant—among other things, like Sam actually did need him as much as he needed Sam—that he had done a good job making Sam feel safe and happy: that smile spelled a job well done. _Damn right a job well done, _Dean thought, _but not by me._

Dean returned the favor with his characteristic cocky grin. It wasn't as pure a smile, like Sam's, but this fabricated grin was _more_ _him_. His gameface was so much a part of him, it was practically his real smile, and if he was strong enough to put on the gameface then it meant he _had_ strength, had part of himself back. Also, as smartass big brother he had a sworn duty to cheapen the moment:

"So."

"Yeah?"

"Aren't you a little short for a Stormtrooper?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but more from relief that Dean was joking around than despair at the badness of the joke. "You know, I _am_ here with Ben Kenobi…"

Dean paused, cocked his head. "Okay. I don't _actually_ know the entire script. You're the geek, remember."

"Why you insult me when I could hand you your ass twelve times over, dude, amazes me. Come on, let's get you to your feet. Just a bit further."

"'Kay. Ack!" Dean groaned as Sam tried to lift him. "Other arm. Please, Sammy—other side. Left hurts."

"Oh, Jesus, sorry, Dean. Why didn't you say something?"

"Well, 'cause it all hurts, really."

Sam pouted, and Dean regretted the admission. "You want me to carry you?"

Dean made a noise like a fussy child and straightened his back. "Aw, hell, no. I-I can walk." Then, for emphasis, and with a little fear, "Let me walk."

"Okay, no problem. Just take your time, Dean. No rush here."

They made the ten-minute hike down the side of the hill in forty minutes of silence. By the end of it, Dean was really wishing Sam would carry him, but when they rounded a red boulder Dean stopped dead in his tracks, half afraid that what he was seeing was a mirage.

Sam indicated the Impala with a ridiculous flourish. "Meet Obi-wan Kenobi…"

"Screw you, she's not a dude," Dean breathed. He tried to take a step forward, but Sam wasn't ready to go, and he stumbled.

"Whoa! Easy, man. Fainting's not gonna impress her."

"C-can I drive?" Dean asked. He was fading like the sunlight, and his hands were shaking.

"You're shitting me, right?" Sam laughed, and dragged the increasingly-legless Dean to the car. Somehow he managed to prop Dean against the car while he rummaged for the keys in his pocket, opened the door, and deposited Dean—half against his better judgment—upright in the passenger seat. He took a moment to catch his breath, then peered up at his brother. Dean's eyes were far away. He was smiling and stroking the black leather lightly with his fingertips, breathing in the gasoline and metal and leather smell with every savoring breath. "Dean?" Sam touched Dean's face gently. "Hang tight, I'll be right back."

With an effort, Dean pulled himself together enough to jiggle his head in a nod. Then Sam was gone. It was hot in the car: he was sweating, which made the wounds itch and sting—and _shit!_ He was bleeding on the upholstery!—but Sam had left the car door open and a clean-smelling breeze blew steadily against his face. Oh, God, it was good to feel cool. Part of him felt like he was going to feel hot forever, but this breeze gave him hope. He just hoped that, whatever else Sam came back with, he didn't come back with a blanket.

"Here, Dean. Drink." A Sam-shaped blur appeared suddenly in front of his eyes, and there was a bottle of cool—not quite cold, but cool—water touching his lips. The taste was orgasmic, and Dean moaned accordingly, beginning to gulp. He clutched at Sam's hand, trying to wrest the bottle from him, but just then Sam pulled it away, stronger than he. "Okay, not so much. Not yet. Give it a minute." Dean whined, but Sam was prepared for this: "You don't want to puke on the leather seats, do you?"

Dean settled for pouting.

"Okay…" Sam said in his best down-to-business voice, and sat back on his heels, and Dean felt himself being surveyed. "You gonna give me the run-down or do I have to do this myself?"

Dean knew he couldn't have helped Sam out if he'd wanted to, because he was already very far gone. There was too much sleep that needed to happen in the time it would take to give Sam his medical history. Not that he would have been much help if he'd been perfectly conscious: it was all pain, all of it, and he was liable to get mixed up. So he settled for the usual gig: "I'm okay, Sammy…"

Sam sighed. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Dean felt himself drifting solidly, irrevocably away, and didn't fight the sleep or the helpless desire to drop-kick his brother who was trying to wrestle him out of his bloody what-once-were-clothes and tend the more serious wounds. Actually, Dean shocked himself with how good it felt. Not the _being_ taken care of, really, and definitely _not_ that he _needed_ to be taken care of, but just that he _was_ being taken care of. It had been so long. So, so long. The last time Dean felt this safe and taken care of was when his dad had tucked him in the night before the fire.

Fire. That woke him up. He was dripping with sweat. So hot. Like hell. Still like hell. But, and this was crucial, it was _not_ hell.

"Sammy?" he said, for reassurance. He felt him before he heard him: tying a makeshift splint to his right leg.

"Right here, Dean, hang on."

Dean opened blurry eyes. It was dark outside, but that didn't tell him much. It was finally beginning to cool off. "How long?"

"Not long, relax. Go back to sleep. No, wait. Drink."

The water was at his lips again, but this time he had no strength to lift his arms. One was bound up in something, anyway. He hadn't thought it was broken, but there you go. There were lengths of bandages around his wrists and ankles, and bundles pressed hard into the meat-hook holes. And—yep—clothes were gone, though Sam had the decency to work him into a clean pair of boxers.

Sam let him finish this bottle, and Dean nodded with satisfaction at the crinkling of the plastic when he started gulping air.

"Okay, Dean. Ready to get going? Do you want a blanket or anything?"

"No," Dean said, with such emphasis that he hurt himself a bit. "No," he said again, settling back. "Hot." Then, "Hungry." He closed his eyes. Telegraphic speech was all his brain was giving him for now, and, honestly, he felt lucky to get that.

Sam frowned so long that Dean looked up. "What?"

"I—we don't have any food, but—" Sam scrunched up his nose, and despite himself Dean recognized the I'm-about-to-do-something-I-don't-agree-with look on Sam's face. "The only thing I got in the cooler is—but you really shouldn't—" Dean saw Sam searching his face, as if looking for something. Then, "If I do something really nice, will you—just—_behave_, please? No macho stuff, no—"

Dean squinted. _Really nice? Was he kidding?_ "Am I still in hell, Sammy?"

"What? No!" Sam started. Then, laying a hand on Dean's knee, "Oh. No, that's not what I—Dean—" Sam frowned. "Whatever." He stood up and went again to the trunk. Dean grimaced a little at the vibrations that jostled his injuries, but the sound of the trunk opening and shutting was beautiful to hear. Then a familiar, glass-and-plastic rattle, and the cooler was sitting on the ground next to the still-open door beside him. Still frowning, Sam opened the cooler.

Dean actually sat up, sniffed the air, eyeing the contents with an instantly predatory gleam in the one eye he could keep open. "I really shouldn't be doing this. This is probably the worst thing for you right now, Dean, so we're gonna split _one_. I'm driving, anyway."

Dean tried to gulp back the tears that threatened to leak out his eyes. It was true that alcohol of any kind was the worst thing a human could possibly imbibe when not functioning at 100%. It was killer if you were bleeding, bad for a fever, hard on a cold, it dehydrated, slowed the healing process. But as bad as it would be for his body, Dean—and now Sam, too—could tell instantly that this beer—sharing this beer with his brother—would completely cure everything that was possibly wrong with his soul.

Sam sat down on the cooler and popped the cap off with a hiss and a clink. No words, but Sam touched the golden liquid to his lips, and Dean took a tentative sip. Then a stronger drink. Then a solid gulp.

"Hey! Don't leave me any, why don't you?" Sam complained.

And it was good.

…

The car ride was a straight-up blur, mainly because Dean was pretty sure Sam drugged him a little. That was good, though, because New Mexico is really far away from South Dakota, and Sam insisted on driving straight to Bobby's, stopping only for gas. That was probably good, too, in case anything came after them: a possibility no one overlooked. Dean remembered waking up suddenly cold just outside of Denver, shivering like it was the middle of winter—though it wasn't, of course—and being able to sleep again only after Sam dressed him in his own hoodie and covered him with a blanket, and then he didn't wake up until they pulled into Bobby's.

"Dean. Dean?" Sam was touching his face gently, trying to wake him. Sam's hands were gloriously warm against his skin.

Dean opened blurry eyes and groaned. His entire body, without exception, hurt. "Where?" he asked softly.

"We're here. We're at Bobby's. I just need you to walk with me a few more feet, Dean…"

The next thing Dean knew, he was standing, a blanket wrapped around him and Sam's arms wrapped around that. His head lolled painfully to the side, hitting Sam's chest. Frowning at what he saw there, "Hey. My head."

"What? Your head? You okay, Dean?"

Dean shook himself, trying to reclaim consciousness. "No. _Amulet_. Want it back."

Sam looked down at the necklace he had been keeping safe until he found Dean again, even if he hadn't believed himself until now that he would ever see Dean again. "_Oh_. Head. Yeah, yeah. Of course, Dean. Once we get ins—hey! Bobby!"

"Shit, boy! What're you still standin' out here for?"

Dean forced himself to lift his head. He flashed the humanoid blur what he hoped was his signature charming smile, although he was pretty sure only half of his mouth worked. "Hey, Bobby."

Before he could protest, Dean was locked in a bear's embrace, and he leaned heavily into the grizzled old man's chest, feeling suddenly so safe and comfortable he almost went to sleep again. After a long, long moment, Bobby pulled him away and held him at arm's length. "Damn it's good to see you again." There were tears in the old man's eyes.

"Good to see you too," Dean managed, although he could barely lift his head.

"Though I must say you look like hell."

Dean grinned. "Yeah. That's about right."

With one man on either side of him, Dean made it into the house. After driving him 600 miles to be here, however, neither thought he could make it upstairs, so they manhandled him into Bobby's room downstairs, which was already prepared for him. Dean didn't remember Sam calling ahead, but he must have, because the swimming, spinning bedroom was certainly kitted out for him, near as he could tell: the bed was made freshly, medical supplies already laid out, a fire burning in the hearth, and the radio already playing. Right on cue, the opening notes of _Fade to Black_ greeted him as they lowered him unresisting onto the bed, and he was unconscious before the thrashfest part of the song at the end, which he secretly disliked anyway, had begun.

He measured time in songs. He growled or whimpered if either of them tried to turn the radio off or even down, and eventually they left it be while he struggled with fever, broken limbs, blood loss, infection, sulfur in his lungs, holes in his shoulder, belly and legs, and all those tiny little cuts and bruises that don't get you much sympathy but still hurt like a bitch. He was pretty sure they drugged him, and he was grateful for that on top of the heap of things he was currently very grateful for. Sam and Bobby finished their first patch-job at the beginning of _Have a Cigar_, and by the second verse of _Paint It Black_ they flipped him over onto his belly to take care of the more serious wounds on his back. He then fell asleep until _Kashmir_, when Bobby gave him some water and a little juice of some kind, and Dean had tried to stay awake to hear the end of the song but apparently eight and a half minutes of consciousness was more than his body wanted to deal with. He cursed his luck when he next woke to something by The Eagles, but it was still a million times better than that crap they played in hell. Things were looking up when he woke next to _Bad Company_, and he managed to stay awake for the length of the song and to swallow some more juice. He went to sleep again with _Shook Me All Night Long_ ringing in his ears and woke next, pretty solidly, to some band covering _Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You_.

"Sam?" God, he hated how quiet his voice was. Pathetic.

There was some movement off to his right, and then Sam's worried, pinched face was hovering in his vision. "Hey, Dean," he said gently, like he was in a library. Dean felt the bed dip next to him, and a hand rested lightly on his arm. "I'm right here, man."

"'Sgood," Dean murmured, only realizing now that he was relaxing that he had gone tense upon waking up. The lack of movement, the sudden surrender to helplessness, took with it a great deal of pain, and he almost went to seep again for the sheer bliss of it all. "Y'okay, Sammy?" he asked, forcing his eyes open.

Sam shook his head and half-laughed at him. "Yeah, Dean, _I'm_ fine." He looked as if he was about to say something, but then, sighing, he added, "I've got my brother back. Of course I'm all right."

Dean grinned from ear to ear before he caught himself. "No chick-flick moments, Sam," he croaked, still grinning.

"God, you're incorrigible." Sam huffed audibly, but he was grinning, too. Then he shook himself: "You need anything, Dean? What sounds good? Water, juice? Milk? Broth? Tea?"

"Coffee? Whiskey?"

Yeah, Dean was definitely gonna be all right.


End file.
